I'm a Master in India

Mumbai in early August was in the peak of its monsoon season, but currently, under the cover of dark gray clouds, lightning flashed repeatedly, yet no rain fell.

The clouds grew thicker and thicker, sweeping across the sky until they filled it completely.

There weren't many pedestrians on the streets, and most shopkeepers had sealed their doors and windows, quietly waiting for the heavy rain to arrive.

Suddenly, the sound of gongs and drums came from the end of the street, and the shop owners and their assistants all craned their necks to look.

They saw a large, diverse procession slowly moving towards them.

Leading the way was a truck, with three burly men standing at the front, waving flags, looking incredibly imposing.

They were surrounded by a crowd of old and young, seemingly numbering several hundred people.

These people were either wearing headscarves of the same color or waving flags painted with sun symbols.

The crowd was bustling, shouting various slogans.

The marching procession passed through the center of the street, heading straight for the Gimble district in the east.

Something exciting was happening!

Whether they were pedestrians on the street or shop owners and assistants, they all came out to the street, looking towards the procession not far away.

In Mumbai slang, causing trouble is called "lafda," which can also mean an affair or romantic entanglement.

Wherever there was a lafda, there were curious onlookers.

A large group of people gathered, preferably getting close and watching without blinking, afraid of missing even a second of the excitement.

Among the onlookers were Hindus, who, under the call of the slogan "Surya, the Sun God," actually joined the procession.

In a place like Mumbai, there were at least a dozen lafdas every day, and the main force behind them were street thugs.

For example, the leader of the procession, Ramol, the one standing at the front of the truck waving the flag, was also a thug from a certain slum.

Under his leadership, the procession quickly stopped in front of a small factory in the Gimble district.

Ramol waved his hand, the drummers beat their drums wildly, and the crowd danced chaotically.

Even more, some directly threw firecrackers in the chaos.

Boom! Pop!

Firecrackers were lit, like lightning in the dark clouds, illuminating the entire factory with a red glow.

The air was thick with the smell of sulfur, the stench from the open sewage pipes, and the sour smell of the crowd's sweat.

The only security guard at the factory entrance watched the increasingly large procession nervously, completely unaware of what was happening.

But Ramol didn't give him a chance to ask; he raised his arm and shouted, "Long live the great Sun God, Surya!"

The crowd responded loudly.

"Long live the great Doctor Sur!"

The drummers beat their drums like mad, the flags danced wildly like frantic snakes, cutting arcs under the overcast sky.

Ramol jumped off the truck and pointed towards the isolated factory.

"For the Sun God!"

He took the lead, kicked open the door on the stunned security guard, and ran towards the factory at full speed.

Behind him was a swarming crowd, men, women, and children, their faces fanatical, rushing into the factory grounds.

Soon, the sound of shattering glass, the creaking of wooden doors, and the shouts of the crowd erupted simultaneously.

They rushed into the offices, overturned tables and chairs, beat anyone who blocked their way, and smashed everything they saw.

Others rushed into the workshops, causing wanton destruction, scaring the workers into scattering and hiding.

The liveliest area was the warehouse, where brand new electric fans were being unearthed; the crowd immediately swarmed over.

Some dragged, some pulled, all joyfully carrying electric fans and running out.

Now, even those who had been standing outside watching the excitement couldn't remain calm.

Stimulated by the smiling faces, people joined in one after another.

These things were free! With such a great opportunity, why be polite?

As long as one person took the lead in India, it was guaranteed to make everyone on the street go crazy.

Thus, the situation became increasingly uncontrollable, with people everywhere engaged in "zero-cost shopping."

The entire factory was in disarray, the employees had long been scared witless by the riot and had all fled, nowhere to be seen.

Boom!

A bright light flashed in the clouds.

Whoosh!

The pouring rain fell almost instantly.

The crowd scattered to find shelter, and the factory, which had just seemed like a battlefield, instantly became incredibly quiet.

The clearing effect was comparable to the police.

In the swaying, distorted curtain of rain, the Sunil Electricals factory, which had just been listed, looked like a ruin.

In the back seat of an imported car parked by the road, Ron watched all of this with wide eyes.

He didn't understand, couldn't comprehend it.

"What on earth happened?" Ron asked, his face full of disbelief.

"Boss, just as you see, Sunil Electricals is finished," said Ashish beside him, gloating.

"Are you sure those weren't our people? Why did they target Sunil Electricals like that, as if they were crazy?"

"Boss, that's just how Indians are, we value loyalty and righteousness.

Once something bad happens, everyone gets emotionally charged."

"But... I don't even know them," Ron said, frowning as he looked at the rain curtain outside the window, still unable to understand.

"You are their deity," Ashish said succinctly.

"This is too crazy," Ron murmured to himself.

It was the first time he realized how terrifying religious sects could be; they were easily incited, quick to protest and demonstrate, and even fearless of death when fanatical.

It was a sharp weapon, capable of harming others and oneself.

Ron secretly warned himself in his heart, be cautious with such methods.

"Keep our people in line, don't come here recently, and don't talk carelessly, there will be trouble."

The law doesn't punish the masses, especially in a country as abstract as India.

This matter would most likely be dropped, but Ron didn't want to be the subject of gossip either.

His golden body (reputation/status) couldn't be broken for now; it was very useful, especially at critical moments.

"Yes, Boss," Ashish replied cautiously.

The people just now indeed had nothing to do with Sur Electricals; they had become Ron's followers because of various reports.

The title of the sole incarnation of the Sun God was very useful, especially since Ron had indeed done many good deeds.

However, to say there was no connection at all might not be entirely true.

For example, the burly man leading the charge, Ramol, lived in the Sur slum, in the illegal area.

Ron waved his hand, signaling the driver to start the car.

The black Taurus sedan slowly disappeared into the curtain of rain, only its red taillights faintly visible in the mist.

The rain poured down, the wind whimpered.

Under the low sky, the dark outline of the factory almost merged with the distant dark clouds.

Roar!

The roaring engine sound pierced the rain mist.

A yellow and black taxi struggled to stop with a sharp screech of brakes.

Bania hurriedly opened the car door; he didn't have an umbrella and rushed towards the factory through the heavy rain.

However, as soon as he entered the gate, he was stunned by the sight before him.

The ground was covered everywhere with discarded fan packaging boxes; they were torn, trampled, and then turned into mush by the washing rain.

The warehouse door was wide open, and it was empty inside.

The doors and windows of the office were broken, and tables and chairs were scattered everywhere.

He nervously jogged to the workshop, and upon reaching the entrance, he was instantly struck as if by lightning.

It's over, it's all over!

Bania wailed in the rain; he fell to the ground, unable to get up.

Mumbai is a city of illusion.

The towering buildings and prosperity you see are built upon lies, theft, and exploitation.

...

Ramol lived in the Sur slum; he had only recently moved in but had secured the best location.

His house had sturdy mud walls, even coated with a layer of cement on the outside, and was right next to the barbed wire fence of the legal area.

He lived with his family; both brothers were married.

Fortunately, the house was quite spacious; after being divided into single rooms, it could barely accommodate eight people.

Having just been caught in a heavy rain, Ramol took a shower as soon as he returned.

He was only wrapped in a towel from head to toe, revealing his muscular chest and thick arms.

Ramol was not a worker at Sur Electricals; he worked at a large dairy factory by the highway to the east.

Due to the advantage of being close by, his family had collected quite a few spoils from the factory.

As soon as he sat down, his wife brought him a cup of hot milk with sugar.

It was thick buffalo milk, the semi-solid liquid milk had congealed into lumps, and there were even black spots on top.

Ramol didn't mind; he tilted his head back, gulped it down in a few swallows, and finished it completely.

"You went to cause a lafda again today?"

His wife's tone carried worry.

"What the hell do you know? If I didn't cause trouble, could I let you live in a house like this? Could you have electrical appliances?"

Although Ramol lived in the slum, his home had all the necessary electrical appliances: a refrigerator, electric fan, and lights.

The electricity came from the legal slum next door, where there were existing water pipes and electrical circuits.

Residents or businesses like him living next to the barbed wire fence could illegally draw electricity back as long as they paid a bribe.

Their lines had separate meters, and they paid the next-door residents a monthly electricity bill higher than the market price.

The people in the legal slum got some extra income for free, and Ramol and his family also got electricity; everyone was happy.

As for the appliances at home, they were all second-hand goods he had acquired.

They originally had some problems, but Ramol collected them from the scrap yard and found someone to fix them, and they could be used.

Undoubtedly, his salary of eight hundred rupees was definitely not enough to support such household expenses.

Ramol also took on side jobs, such as lafda.

This was a business, specifically designed for street thugs.

The gang leaders or politicians needed them to maintain their status and would give them generous rewards afterwards.

They mostly earned income through violent means; they couldn't imagine a world where everything was peaceful and calm.

Their current status, the respect they received, and the decent life they lived were all thanks to the trouble they had caused over the years.

To cause trouble, and to be able to continue causing trouble, meant that enemies and friends could not remain constant.

Therefore, for them, friends, enemies, and even human lives were relative concepts.

They climbed up by stepping on others' shoulders, striving to ensure they didn't pick the wrong side.

Who allied with whom, who was most likely to be elected, who to give a cut to.

Was it the union, the police, government officials, or enemies? Ensuring the other party wouldn't seek revenge temporarily was a complex matter.

Recently, to prepare for this activity, he had been active day and night.

A friend worked at the dairy factory for him, and Ramol paid him his wages so he could free up time specifically for causing trouble.

His wife felt deeply uneasy about this kind of life; every time Ramol came back, she would nag for a long time.

But Ramol didn't listen; he sat on the chair drinking by himself, then tilted his head and began to snore.

Their seven-month-old daughter lay on the ground, reaching for the tilted whiskey bottle.

Her hand was too small to grasp the body of the bottle, so she cried out with a 'wah', truly pitiful and cute.

Ramol's wife immediately picked up their daughter, afraid of disturbing her husband's rest.

But Ramol slept soundly, able to fall asleep peacefully amidst the baby's crying and the noise outside.

Until the front door was knocked on.